


Phoenix Fire

by hellkitty



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 19:23:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4191936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two things I'm terrible at: titles and tags. </p><p>Pretty much another kinda sorta kink meme fill for this pairing where I'm pretty sure it doesn't hit the OP's mark so I'm not going to post it to the meme so that no one feels that 'bleh someone already wrote a fill for this'.  I know, I know, multiple fills are love, but, let's be real here. </p><p>Also a sort of continuation of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4159029"> this unlovely beastie </a>.  Let's roll with this with a wink and a giggle as the soundtrack: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ps7tVvQHLyo">  Magic Man </a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Phoenix Fire

The Dag was probably a terrible nurse, but she didn’t care. She was still better than anyone else--Capable was busy mourning her War Boy, and said that sick men reminded her of things she wasn’t ready for, Toast was trying to become a War Boy herself, and Cheedo, well, she’d declared herself allergic to men.  

And the Dag thought of the Keeper of the Seeds, and said to herself, in a voice no one else could hear, that that’s what she would have done: taken care of what needed taking car of.  And if she sneaked a peek or two under the trousers of the War Boys while she did it, well, it was research, all right?  And maybe a little payback for all the times she’d been looked at, reduced to a thing.  

But mostly research.  

Because they were all so different from Joe--their bodies lean and muscular, skin smooth. And they all had the same parts, but they were all so different, and, well, it was kind of fascinating. She and the other wives had spent so much energy thinking of the War Boys only as some anonymous, undifferentiated terrifying mass, that realizing that they could be weak, they could be sick, and they could be unique was...kind of thrilling.  

So she didn’t really mind her shift, and besides, she learned things from the War Boys who had medical training.  Useful things, she thought.  Useful one day. 

She stepped into the infirmary, twisting her pale hair up behind her neck, giving the place an almost proprietary look, a place she knew, a place she had authority.  

She liked it.  

And this morning, it was fuller than yesterday--another group must have staggered in last night, War Boys staggering in from missions, or from what was left after the gap.  

A splotch of red-black caught her eye, vivid in so much white and black. The musician, the one whose guitar they’d heard screaming after them during their desperate flight.  She stared at him, and he slumped, limp, like a ragdoll, a bowl of food resting on his thighs, against one of the heavy stone pillars, looking more empty than hurt.  

“Supposed to eat that,” the Dag said, sweetly. 

His head jerked up, and she could see the white spans where eyes should be, uncanny and blank. But he was paying attention, focused, listening, and the way he tilted his head exactly to her face was a little unsettling. 

The Dag felt a bit of a thrill at that, really. Something unknown, unusual.  “The food, I mean.” She reached over, close enough that he could probably smell her--did he use smell like that? Like an animal?--tapping the rim of the bowl with one finger.  “You need help?” 

Of course he did, and if he didn’t, well, her curiosity said he did. So she perched next to him, her thigh juuuust brushing his, picking up a slice of fruit and holding it up. “Apple,” she said, as though she were teaching a child, and pressed it against his mouth. 

He flinched back, turning away, petulantly. 

The Dag laughed. “It’s just fruit!”  She leaned closer, enough her cheek brushed his, and popped the slice into her own mouth. “MMMMMMM,” she purred, picking up another slice.  “Yummy.”  She leaned closer, pressing her breast against his shoulder. 

Was he trembling? Was he? “You sure you won’t try, just a little bit? For me?” 

He was trembling. She could feel it, as he turned toward her, lips parting just enough to accept the apple slice, chewing on it solemnly, almost warily.    
“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” she asked. She shouldn’t be so excited by the idea, that he--that any man--might be afraid of her.  She’d spent so much time being told she was powerless, useless as anything but an ornament, and she’d always known, in the white gold core of her being, that that was wrong, but this was like the world finally acknowledging it.  She couldn’t help herself, curling closer to him, tracing the line of his far shoulder. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.” Which was, she thought, a very different thing than saying she wasn’t dangerous. Because she liked the idea of being dangerous.  

“Strawberry, this time,” she said, picking up a red fruit. He didn’t even fight her, opening his mouth obediently, trustingly.  

This was doing very un-nursely things to her composure.  “I heard,” she purred, leaning close so that her hair tickled the top of his shoulder, his throat, slipping down from her sloppy bun, “you and Angharad...once.” She left the lacuna there, a pause he could fill, well, really only one way. “She said it was the only time she’d ever, you know,” her voice edged into slyness, “with a man.” 

His head turned toward her, as though he could read something in her voice, and she could hear the catch in his breath, like a little flash of energy over her, that seemed to find an echo in her belly. She dropped her voice to a whisper, soft and husky. “I want to know what you did.”  

He stopped breathing entirely, for a long moment, and then moved, faster than he really should be able to, she thought, hand closing over her wrist, pulling her against him in something like a feral kiss, and his mouth was hot and sweet and tart from the fruit, setting fire to her senses, and she barely--because part of her did not want to, at all--pulled away, rising to her feet, detaching herself from him slowly, teeth closing on his lower lip, sucking it into her mouth as she stood. “Not here. Not now. Later,” she said, and it was a fertile promise that sang in her belly and blood as she pulled away, seeing lust and want naked on his face, in every line of his body, straining forward, tempting her to change her mind.  

And if the idea of making him wait, burning in blind want, wasn’t so new and so powerful, she might have given in. Instead, she felt a wicked smile on her lips, as she turned away.  

Later. Definitely later. 

***

Dark folded itself around the Citadel, and she decided she’d kept him--and herself--waiting long enough.  She’d felt anticipation building in her belly, liquid tingling heat, that seemed to rise as she crossed over the infirmary rows. He was still there, curled on his side, head pillowed on his arm, but as soon as she approached, he uncurled, half sitting up.  

“Miss me?” she teased, tipping his head up toward her with a finger along his jaw.  He had a nice mouth, she thought, lips full and soft and expressive.  And right now, they were begging for a kiss. 

He should beg more, she thought, just grazing her lips over his, taking up his hands. “Come with me,” she said, letting one of his hands graze her flank as she guided him up, down the long row.  It was late and the exam room was empty, and she decided she’d had too many bad memories of this place, and what better way to exorcise those than this?  She couldn’t think of any, so she led him in, almost dancing in front of him, half-wishing he could see, because maybe her beauty was its own power and she wanted to own that too, but she didn’t need that with him. He was here, eager, wanting, simply by her voice, her touch.  

She turned to face him, taking his hands, placing them on her hips.  Just to see what he would do. Well. Not...just.  She definitely approved of the way his hands moved on her, tracing the curves of her waist, before spreading down, his mouth parting, lost in touch.  “Like what you feel?” She wriggled under his touch like an eel, brushing against his belly.  

Apparently, yes--his hands squeezed the swell of her ass, before scooping down to pick her up, pulling her thighs around his hips, taking her weight easily, as his palms moved up her ribs, thumbs just grazing the sides of her breasts.  

She gave a surprised squeak--she hadn’t expected him to be strong, somehow, and as she locked her ankles around his broader hips she could feel his cock  between them, two layers of fabric between them.  For a moment, she wondered if this was what it was supposed to be like, what it would have been like, for her, if her mother hadn’t sold her, just at the cusp of womanhood.  She felt all the weight of what she’d missed out on, what had been sold away from her body, like a foaming cataract in her, wild and trapped. 

He pulled her into a kiss, something hungry, almost desperate, as though he could feel that wild water within her, somehow finding the exam bed and lowering her onto it as though he was laying down a treasure, the hand that had been bracing her back moving to stroke the long tendrils of her moon-colored hair.  So different from before, she thought.  She liked this better.  His mouth softened against hers, and he pulled away, only to lower his lips to her throat, and she felt the graze of his teeth, gentle at first, then insistent, nipping at her skin. 

His weight was on her, and she thought for a moment, unpleasantly, of Joe, and his heaving bulk, soft and blobby, but that was like thinking of darkness just to know day better, because Coma was lean and muscled, his weight like a serpent’s against her, a pure, animal kind of want, slow and sinuous against her.  

He slid back, knees parting her thighs, hands tracing the contours of her body, skimming her breasts, flirting for a moment with the valley between them, that space untouched by light where her breasts fell against her ribcage, then down her body, to where her still-flat belly shivered under his touch and the fabric of her dress felt like way too much between them, even as it tugged down against her, like an echo of his fingertips. 

His hands found her skirt, bunching up fabric, until he found the hem of it, so that his hands found--at last, it felt like--the silk skin of her thighs.  He stroked at her skin, gently at first, then more firmly, squeezing the muscle, pulling her down, closer to him, pushing the skirt up higher over her hips.  He bent his head, kissing her knee, gently lifting her calf to bare the sensitive crease with his fingertips. 

Her breath was shallow, fascinated, her eyes not leaving him, the way he knelt between her legs, brushing his cheek against her knee like a kind of reverence, while he slid a hand up her thigh, fingertips teasing at the join of her thigh, tickling over the light nest of hair over her sex.  She couldn’t suppress the moan in her throat any more than she could control the rush of heat between her legs.  And she could see the way his mouth twitched, as though he felt the dampness, felt her desire like a palpable thing, something knowing and wanting and wanting to please. He ducked his head down, tongue tracing a hot line down her thigh, to nuzzle against her sex, sliding his knees out behind him to lie between her legs on his belly.  

Angharad had never told them exactly what he’d done to her, like it was too special for words, something that just defied language, or maybe something too private, too intimate to share. And as the Dag felt the hot spike of his tongue parting the folds of her sex, pulling a whine from her throat, she knew she’d lack ways to describe it, too. All they’d ever known of sex was Joe, and Joe had cared about two things: his own pleasure, and maximizing fertility.  This was different and new, and her thighs fell apart, opening herself to the experience, to him, willing, wanting to see where this went, what mysteries her body held from her, wanting more.  

Her spine bowed upward, hands slapping the bed, as she felt a finger probe inside her, and she went almost rigidly still, as though every sense in her body focused on the slow, gentle movement, and then another one, slipping in beside the first. It was smaller than Joe’s cock, but her body seemed to feel it more, every nerve tingling and alive.  

She forced herself to breathe, extending her inhales, exhales, accepting the feeling of his fingers inside her, his own breath hot over her sex, sighing out a kind of sensual contentment for a long, long moment. 

The fingers moved, gently, inside her, scissoring apart, then curling up, the two coming together in a sort of beckoning hook, dragging along the top of her sex. Her hips rolled into the touch, one of her hands flopping up by her face, breath coming in one long, deep suck of air, that stopped in her lungs as his tongue parted the warm folds of her flesh, again, blazing a hot line up her senses. “Yes,” she hissed through her teeth, the sound sibilant and serpentine, pushing her hips against him. “More.”  

More. She wanted more of this, more of the sudden molten fire that seemed to pour through her belly, as though spread by his fingers inside her, causing her body to twist like a flame on the bed.  “More,” she repeated, trying to make it sound less like a needing whimper and more like an order. 

He ignored her, keeping the same, slow, unhurried time, fingers curling and spreading inside her, tongue exploring the outside folds of her sex, licking along them, sucking one into his mouth for a moment, his nose just brushing that sensitive little star of energy--teasing her, holding off what she wanted, which was all of this, everything, now, furious and impatient and greedy. 

And the frustration blazed over her, indignation about being ignored lost in the growing liquid heat he was calling forth from her body.  She cursed, trying to goad him with her hand to go faster, harder.  

He...stopped. Entirely, stilling against her, inside her, lifting his mouth away so she could feel the sudden rush of cool air where his mouth had been.  The Dag glared down her body at him, the small, heaving rises of her breasts, her body splayed out, wanton. “Do it myself, then,” she said, defiant, her hand crossing down her body. She didn’t need his mouth, warm and supple and exploring. She’d done this part before, and it wasn’t what she wanted, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. 

He snatched at her hand, with his free one, pinning it over her belly, gripping her wrist hard enough to feel the bones shift, and he seemed to look at her, or sense her looking at him, and he turned his face into her gaze and shook his head, ‘no’, a trace of a smile on his lips.  

“I’m not going to beg!”

He gave a half-shouldered shrug that she couldn’t figure out. And his fingers moved, gently, inside her again, and it was as if all the fading fire blazed up again, immediately, as though he’d opened the door to it, welcoming it in.  

The insult died on her lips, fading to a squeak, and he shifted his hand, thumb riding up the lines of her sex, moving in a sort of rocking half circle in some sort of complex rhythm with the way his fingers shifted inside her.  

And he couldn’t see, but she could feel him watching, somehow, feeling the way her thighs shifted, sweat blossomed on her skin, the way her breath moved in sharp, climbing pants.  As if he could feel the way his touch was stirring something deeper than her body awake, something she’d kept hidden under anger and betrayal for years, something on the honed edge of unsafe, a sort of furious freedom that fired through her body, suddenly, and she screamed, a long, wailing sound of loss and anger and a sort of blinding bright power birthing itself through her. Her whole body felt electric, shuddering, her thighs quivering against his shoulders, and the hand he’d held her wrist with found hers, squeezing their palms together like he knew, like he understood.

He slipped his hand, gently, from her sex, planting a soft kiss on the join of her thigh that felt like a benediction, before he slithered up her body, pausing to plant a light kiss on her belly, one on each breast, as though awakening them. He rested his weight on her, carefully, as though she were fragile, breakable, and she felt fragile, right now, like a brittle shell of a phoenix egg, like the phoenix itself, spreading wet wings.  The weight felt...good,  against her. Not pinning her down, not holding her, not dominating her, but grounding her, letting the last fires burn away the old, the bad, and letting her know, somehow, in a way her body understood as though written deep in its history, that she wasn’t alone. 


End file.
